


The Void

by thatotherperv



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Abduction, Angel s2 / Beige!Angel era, Buffy s5 / the Glory hole (snerk), Dark, F/M, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, douchebaggery is a valid kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-28
Updated: 2007-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatotherperv/pseuds/thatotherperv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander’s in the wrong place at the wrong time again, poor schmuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in a slightly AU Bs5/As2. In As2 Reprise, Darla does not show up at the Hyperion after Angel discovers the home office is on earth—Xander does. As2 proceeds a little differently in this ‘verse…everything is explained eventually. The biggest thing to realize is that Angel has been driven farther into his own personal darkness than he was in canon. He’s pretty bat-shit here.
> 
> This has been a rather nerve-wracking writing experience. I think it’s just so much darker than anything *I’ve* ever written, although it’s far from being the darkest thing I’ve ever read…it was just an uncomfortable stretch of my skills. Thanks muchly to all of my wonderful friends who petted me through trial runs and more neuroses than it probably warranted. :) no really. I was a basketcase. special thanks to sparrow2000, who gave me a good chunk of her time for betaing and idea-bouncing. Thanks and curses to jans_intentions who prodded me relentlessly until it was done—the whole SEVEN MONTHS that I was working on it. Haha.
> 
> Please heed the warnings, so that we don’t make each other cry later. 
> 
> Warnings: Angel/Xander is the pairing, but it’s not shippy…in other words, they are not destined for a romantic ending. *This is darkfic.* Non-con and mindfucking like woah. additionally, there are some aspects of this fic that I cannot warn you about, because they would spoil the effect.
> 
> originally posted [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=thatotherperv&keyword=The%20Void%20Angel%2FXander%20darkfic&filter=all).

The first thing that tipped Xander off to the wrongness in LA was a lack of Jimmy Choo’s.

Cordelia had a long habit of removing her shoes whenever there were books to be read. She used to do that in the library during after-school research parties, and Xander liked her feet, so sometimes they had to sneak off to the janitor’s closet. She _so_ did that on purpose, but it took him a long time to figure that out, because women were wily, and Xander was a sucker.

But there were no shoes under Cordelia’s desk at the Hyperion, as there had been all the other times Xander had visited her in LA, between apocalypses. And if there were no shoes, that meant there was no Cordelia. And it was business hours. If Cordelia Chase were not steadfastly awaiting money, or potential money, that was a bad bad thing. Xander had always been pussy-whipped for a good little capitalist.

Now that he noticed the absence of footwear, Xander noticed that the lobby of the hotel was stiflingly quiet. Eerie quiet. Hellmouthy quiet, and if Xander’d had any survival instinct at all, he would have hightailed it out of there.

But Buffy really needed that thingamajig to fight off a skanky hellgod, and really, there was a reason Xander was the Zeppo.

So instead of running away as fast as his little legs would carry him, he called out to Angel, and wandered further into the hotel.

His voice echoed off the parquet. The hotel felt empty, but Deadboy was one creepy-stealthy dude, so you never knew, with him. One thing was sure, though. Cordy and Wes and that other guy, Gunn, had left abruptly. Their desks were in disarray, as though interrupted from a normal day’s work, with no time or opportunity to straighten up before closing time. Wes’s workspace was littered with old tomes as carelessly as the pile of Penthouse next to Xander’s toilet, and the day he did that on purpose was the day Xander ate the guy’s old tweed suit. He seemed to have loosened up fractionally since his stick-in-the-ass Watcher days, but…he wasn’t that loose.

The badness amplified when Xander approached the bathroom, intent on relieving himself of the Big Gulp he’d sucked down on the way here. The carpet squished under his shoes where it met bathroom tile, and a nudge on the door revealed a layer of water covering the floor. The toilet was overflowing, unheeded.

Xander’s skin crawled. Queen C? She didn’t tolerate malfunction in her throne. Xander felt extremely unsettled now, and kept a nervous eye on the door as he shut off the steady stream from the toilet tank.

He peed in the small cubicle shower, which…rude and slightly unsanitary, but desperate times, and not even his growing heeby-jeebies could eclipse the ache in his bladder. But he was almost too nervous to release a stream, and as soon as nature was done with its social call, he was getting the hell out of here. He’d search the kitchen for uh…bodies, or something, and then he’d run on back to Sunnydale. They could do without the whatchamacallit. Or better yet, he’d go to Cordy’s apartment, and in a good world he’d find her there, and they’d hunt down the thing themselves.

But the thing was, Xander just wasn’t sure it was a good world. In fact, he knew it wasn’t.

So, body-checking in the kitchen, it was.

There were no bodies in the kitchen (including the food pantry, which he checked, because Angelus had a sick sense of humor, and Angel was a remarkably tidy man). However, there was a visible layer of dust on everything other than the fridge handle and the microwave. The significance of that didn’t escape him.

There was something wrong here. Very wrong.

“Hey, Xander.”

The voice was startlingly casual in the midst of all the Friday the Thirteenth creepiness, and if Xander jumped three feet and squeaked, it was just between him and the fridge and Angel’s smirk. Speaking of which….

Xander turned to see smirking Angel, as expected. Maybe. It had to be Angel. But Angel hardly ever had a facial expression, much less one that was so sharp and smug. So maybe this wasn’t Angel. Maybe this was….

“Angel!” Xander cleared his throat and tried for a manlier pitch. “Angel. You look uh….” Scary as hell. Kinda pissed off. Really evil. Like you’re playing with your food. “Hey, so I’m just going to cut to the chase, as they say here in Hollywood. Are you Angelus? Because you seem to be short a few humans.”

And Angel(us?) smiled this flinty little smile that made Xander’s balls try to crawl right into his pelvic cavity, because it wasn’t looking so safe on the outside. Angel was blocking the only exit. Fuck. Xander was an idiot.

“Where’s the trust, Xander? If I were Angelus, wouldn’t you be dead right now?”

His tone was lilting, like a mockery of Angelus, but the body language was all soully—intimidating, but stiff. Houston, we have mixed signals.

“See, I’m not so sure about that. Because from what I remember, Angelus likes to take his time and fuck with people for a while before he rips their entrails out.”

And wow, Xander needed to invest in some duct tape for his big fat mouth, because something about _that_ sentence made Angel(us?)’s eyes light up, and when faced with a choice between the two happy-making options there, Xander voted for ‘entrails.’ Not a classic preference, sure, but Angelus? Probably not a considerate lover. Any fucking with people would probably involve the ripping of entrails anyway and….

Woah. _So_ not thinking about that. Metaphorical fucking. As in, head games. No need to jump to the Big Gay Sex. Angelus would be a lot more likely to chain him up in the basement to toy with the Scoobies than to bend him over the counter and….

Holy crap, _definitely_ no need for blood to rush in _that_ direction. It was a known fact of the universe that penises had no common sense, but this was really not the time for secret man-lusting. Mortal danger. Do you hear that down there? Mortal. Danger.

The source of penile confusion was probably that Xander used to have dreams…very disturbing, unwanted dreams that started out just like this. His penis apparently did not understand that this particular scenario was unlikely to end with fuzzy handcuffs and Cool Whip, and was doing its best to cheerlead them to that end.

His penis was an idiot.

Angel(us?) smirked at Xander in a knowing way, dark eyes sliding slickly down Xander’s body until they rested on the treacherous, disobeying bulge in his pants. His hands flew over his crotch, as if _that_ did any good, and Angel(us?) laughed, and the sound made a shiver zing up Xander’s spine, because Angel had never made a sound like that before.

When he had a soul, that is.

“So uh…” Xander cleared his throat. Dammit, he was a man now, not a nervous little boy but goddonthurtmeplease. “Where is everybody? Cordy? Wes?”

Way to sound authoritative. As authoritative as a hall monitor about to get a wedgie.

Deadboy, in whatever form, suddenly gave him a look of extremely perverse amusement. “You know what, they’re in hell.” He started to laugh again, muttering something about a home office, and Xander’s blood ran cold.

Oh god, Cordy….

“Goddammit. Who fucked you this time?” It wasn’t quite what Xander meant to say, but…pertinent.

He regretted the question when Angel became intensely serious all of a sudden and advanced on him, quick and graceful, too close too fast. Close enough to cage Xander in against the counter. He tried to scramble backwards but only succeeded in rapping his knuckles on the flour jar and yelping.

Angel was too big, pressed right up against Xander without actually pressing, and he smelled oddly good, like expensive cologne and _man_. It didn’t quiet Xander’s spiking pheromones, and even though now was not the time to explore his repressed sexuality, Xander had no doubt what Angel was sensing when hard glittery eyes swept down Xander’s body and back. Was it possible that an erection was somehow an adaptive fear response? Fight, flight, or…bone?

“No one’s fucked me yet, Xander. Volunteering?” The question was oddly detached, impartial, as though Angel weren’t all over him like a polyester suit.

Xander laughed, but it sounded like hyperventilating. “I don’t really go in for necrophil—AH!”

And that time he _had_ squeaked but you’re goddamn right he squeaked because Angel had him by the nuts—actually, the whole damn package, in that big hand of his—and if that wasn’t a cause for squeaking, then what was? Angel wasn’t squeezing, yet, but he was applying the kind of grip that suggested that squeezing might be imminent. Angel’s sharky smile was even and white and somehow just as deadly as his piranha-face would be.

Oh god.

“Silly me. Here I was, thinking that that’s _exactly_ what you went in for.” The heel of Angel’s hand pressed and rubbed in a way that was oooohhhh _god_ , and there was a wet spot blooming in his boxers, and Xander Harris was the easiest manwhore ever. Here in bizarro world.

Especially when Angel(us?) nuzzled his extremely lethal face into the crook of Xander’s throat and _sniffed_ , and there was a brush of lips, and Xander’s pelvis jerked.

“Goddamn, you smell good.” And then there was a cold wet tongue, taste-testing. Exploring his flesh in a functional way that really shouldn’t make his cock throb, but Xander was never such a lucky guy. Obviously. “Terror and lust and loathing. But I always liked a little bit of….” Angel paused, brought up short by a thought. He reared back and the look on his face was sincere, and Xander recognized with utter clarity who was in there. Angelus’ attempts to be Angel had always been _too_ contrite, unconvincing. Only the true broody one could brood that well. He was the master.

And more importantly—why would Angelus be using the microwave when he could tap his meal straight from the source?  
  
“I still have my soul. Sorry I put you on.”

The confirming reassurance was completely non-sequitor to the sniffing and licking and grip on his manly bits, but its abruptness didn’t stop the wave of relief, and the glimmer of a feeling that he’d make it out alive, once Angel was done with whatever perverse mid-life crisis was going on at Xander’s crotch.

Angel sighed happily and leaned back into his throat. “Yeah, that’s the stuff.” And whatever Angel was smelling now, it must be like catnip for vampires, because Angel was rubbing his face on Xander’s throat, and his hand on Xander’s dick, and Xander was whimpering.

“One more thing though,” Angel murmured low, right up against his ear, and Xander could hardly concentrate now, what with the pumping and the stroking. His attention was thrown off his cock, however, by a cracking-shifting noise that was wayyyy too familiar, and made his balls tighten in the terror-shrinking way. There was more scrambling on his part, but Angel was holding him fast by the scruff. And let’s not forget, by the cock.

“A soul doesn’t mean a fucking thing. It took me more than a hundred years to realize that, Xander. I think you might have caught on quicker, but I’m not sure you have that kind of time on your hands.”

And then there was a crippling pain in his neck (ha) and the rending of flesh, and suction, and then everything got a whole lot dimmer, and Xander’s last thought was that he’d miscalculated again, but at least it would be the last time.

~*~*~*~

Xander awoke…alive. Pulse? Check. A steady need for oxygen? Check. Fledgy bloodlust? Conspicuously absent. Though why the fuck Angel would want to turn him was a mystery, so his persistent humanity made a lot of sense. Why he was waking up at all…that remained to be seen.

Of course, he could just ask Deadboy, since he was conveniently located on top of Xander. Settled in comfy, like he’d been there a while.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Angel was sort of…smiling at him, with a kind of dry benevolence.

It wasn’t until Xander tried to move that he found his wrists strapped to the headboard. No give to them. Just the small movement of tugging sent out a spark of prickliness from his ailing circulation, and it made him wonder how long he’d been out.

“Angel, you asshole, let me—”

“Open wide!” Suddenly there was splatter of orange juice flowing down towards Xander’s mouth and he had to open or let the stuff splash sticky all over his face. He choked on the sweetness at the back of his throat, and forced himself to swallow as the stuff just kept coming.

“You know, Xander, you’re a natural at that. It’ll come in handy later. Probably isn’t going to taste as good as OJ, but if you’re polite about it, I’ll rinse your mouth out afterwards.”

“You fucking pervert I’m not going to ghehghghggh….” Here’s a fun fact—it may be hazardous to your health to attempt speech when a tasty beverage is being poured intently down your throat. Angel stopped and waited politely while he choked and coughed.

Xander decided to try a different tack, because Angel _almost_ looked reasonable right now. In a psychotic way. And you know, he didn’t seem to want Xander dead—the life-sustaining blood sugar gave him away. Not that he’d trust the guy as far as he could throw him, but Xander _did_ trust that the disproportionate amount of guilt Angel suffered from could be played upon.

Optimism demanded that Xander overlook the fact that he was already naked.

“Angel. I don’t really know what’s been happening around here, but let’s not be so hasty about the uh…bondage, okay? We all have our, um… _moments_ , but we wouldn’t want anything to happen that you might regret. Right? So why don’t you just untie me, and I promise I’ll never mention this to the Buffster. Our little…kinky…secret.”

Angel narrowed his eyes and considered Xander through the dark slits. Finally, he shook his head. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to regret this at all. Just the opposite. Thanks for your concern though.”

Xander was momentarily stunned out of quippiness. “Angel, you can’t be serious. Let me up. You have to.”

Angel studied him seriously. “I’ve come to a few conclusions about my destiny lately, Xander. Important ones, for me—and right now, for you. Do you know what they are?”

“Uh…no?” Jesus. Leave it to him to be stuck with a vampire in the middle of an existential crisis. If he weren’t currently tied to that vampire’s bed, sans clothing, he would have laughed.

“This atonement business is a total crock. I’m never going to make up for everything I’ve done, because they don’t want me to make up for it. No matter how hard I try, they’re out to screw me. The Powers, _and_ Wolfram and Hart. The world is not a fair place, Xander—I know it, and you know it. So what I think, is that my so-called destiny can fuck right off. I don’t want to be this guy _anymore_. So we’re going to have a little fun, you and I. And I think that if I have enough time to make you all…conflicted and self-loathing, _that_ might just make me happy enough that I don’t have to _be_ this guy anymore.

“So no, Xander, I won’t be letting you up.”

….Jesus Christ. Xander really wished Angel was still laconic-guy. Because when the man talked, he had a habit of being frighteningly honest, and _that_ had been a little piece of enlightenment that Xander really didn’t need.

“Look, Angel, it’s obvious you’re going through a…rough patch, but you shouldn’t talk like….ha. ha. Um….”

And apparently they were done with the speaking portion of the evening, because Angel’s mouth was now latched over Xander’s scar-to-be, and Xander hated that his heartbeat picked up pace out of something other than sheer terror, that his neck stretched of its own accord, opening under the soft, dry lips.

He felt Angel smile against his neck, and he tried withdrawing the invitation, turning his face back towards the ceiling to cut off access to his neck, but Angel simply shifted to suck on Xander’s adam’s apple. A fingernail, a short, edgy crescent, drew sharply from Xander’s nipple over his abdomen before slicing slyly into the curly hair at the base of Xander’s cock—not drawing blood, just scratching the surface. Xander hated his own shiver from the sharp caress, almost as much as he hated his gratitude.

Gratitude that it was Angel that had him chained. If it were Angelus, he would have been feeling a knife.

Or a fang. A slice so precise and sharp that it was hardly felt at all, till you were hemorrhaging blood, open wide. Xander shuddered at the ghost of the torture, and knew that’s what Angel wanted.

Angel nuzzled breathlessly against Xander’s ear, making quicksilver pool hot in his belly, and Xander couldn’t pretend this was Anya, even when he closed his eyes and _tried_. Angel was too big, too _male_ , too darkly calculating where Anya was frank and eager. She would have been panting in that ear and clutching at his dick already, but Angel just nudged and nibbled, inexorable, and Xander was strung tight with expectation.

Strung so tight that when Angel finally did touch his dick, a single light fingertip doing something suspiciously like tickling, Xander gasped a breath that stuck in his throat, body vibrating in a tight shudder.

Angel laughed quietly in his ear, the sudden expelling of breath shocking after none. “Somebody’s hot for it.”

Xander felt his whole face turn red, and for a second, he was so pissed off he forgot to be turned on, thrashing his weight upwards futilely, in an effort to dislodge Angel, spitting mad, literally spitting. Angel was still laughing, the prick, and—

All of that momentum, emotional and physical, died suddenly when Angel caught his hips and ground Xander up against the hard cock covered in soft designer slacks. Angel knelt there, clutching his ass so that Xander’s body was bowed off the bed, helpless to gain any movement other than the humping Angel was forcing his body into, though his body tried to assist, in jerky little thrusts. Xander bit his lip hard to keep from crying out as the thrusting grew faster and those eyes bore into him, and he was leaving dark wet trails all over Angel’s pants and he was so close so close and Xander would have had to bite clean through his lip to contain the word “Fuck!” that tore from him when he dangled right on the edge and Angel

Dropped his body abruptly onto the bed and got up.

And Xander wanted to…cry or rage at him or tell him to get the fuck over here and finish what he started, but he shouldn’t want that, and anyway, Angel was undressing now methodically, and Xander realized he was going to.

Finish what he started.

And the realization made Xander’s lower body twist defensively, curling his ass away from Angel and bringing his knees up to shield his swollen sex. Angel merely lifted an eyebrow at the shift, and it did nothing to soothe the aching vulnerability of his position.

Especially when Angel dropped those slacks and Xander found he couldn’t stop staring. At _that_. That, which was going to go in _there_ , whether Xander wanted it to or not. And it was probably pretty average, but right now it was growing before him to epic proportions. The cock that took Tokyo and survived for the death match with King Kong.

Now was the time for panicking and B-movie references.

When Angel knee-walked onto the bed, stroking Godzilla, Xander’s hips awkwardly scuttled away of their own volition, making for the headboard as though twisting himself into a pretzel could improve their predicament. Angel seized them with one big hand, incongruously gentle, and twisted them back around to their rightful place.

“Not gonna hurt you.” Angel’s voice was oddly calming, like someone speaking to a madman. And just now he felt mad so that might be why the tone actually worked, soothed him a little, until Angel rolled Xander’s legs upward, exposing him. His panic level shot back into the stratosphere then, and his body jerked spasmodically when Angel’s finger whispered, feather-light, over Xander’s no-go zone. His body clutched shut in response, a wary little anemone, and Angel grinned smugly.

“Mmm-mmm-mmm. Look at that. God, Xander, you might just make me happy enough after all.”

Xander gritted his teeth against the squirm he felt brought on by the finger lightly ringing his hole. “Short trip, turning one rapist into another.”

Angel looked momentarily annoyed at the implication, but it was a mere flicker in his composure. “Not rape.”

Xander was incredulous. “It’s not.”

Angel shook his head, a dark half-smile playing at his mouth. “Nope. Your body wants it, Xander.”

Xander stared, ridiculously mired in every Lifetime movie the girls had ever forced him to watch, then exploded with fury—not a little bit because he _wasn’t_ really fighting it, was he? Not that it would have done any good. Had his knees pulled up like a good little boy and—“That’s BULLSHIT. You have me _chained_ to your bed, you sick _FUCK!_ ”

When Angel uncoiled lazily on top of him and pressed him into the mattress, Xander’s lungs felt flattened for reasons beyond the obvious. Angel’s cock was rubbing against his own, and his jaw was gripped in a big hand, face pulled to the side so Angel could breath lies…truths…facts…something, into his ear.

“I know you, Xander. I _see_ you. I’ve _been_ you. Now, Liam, he was a party boy and he liked to think he did every deviant thing under the sun to anger his da, but there was one line he never crossed—until he died—though he wanted to. He had no hypothetical objection to the love between men, as long as it wasn’t him getting buggered. However you take your pleasure, but it wasn’t for him. Or so he said. _But_ —”

The tip of a cold tongue flickered against Xander’s ear like an accident, and his hips jerked up against the pelvis grinding subtly into his own. Angel wasn’t forcing Xander’s face aside any longer…there was no need, because Xander wasn’t struggling. He lay frozen with his ear turned up to listen and his eyes squeezed shut to pretend he wasn’t. He wasn’t breathing quite right, and Angel’s fingers were tracing soft patterns over his cheek, nose, eyes, mouth. The touch was hypnotic. The cadence. The words….

“At night, you see, it was a different matter altogether. Or I should say, in the early morning hours, after he’d been in his cups. He’d touch himself, which was sin enough to be sure, but his _thoughts_ …well, they weren’t of the barmaid, you understand. No, at those times, it was animal rutting between hard bodies. Jamming his cock into dirty places and taking what he wanted…men were supposed to do that….”

Angel’s hand left his face and his body shifted slightly to the right as Xander’s leg was hitched over his waist. This time, when the fingertip traced his hole, it didn’t clench. It quivered, and Xander felt his whole body do the same, a tight vibration of emotion…scared and horny and angry and freaked out, because how did Angel know what was in his head? And since when did he have anything in common with this asshole?

“But that wasn’t his dirtiest secret. Are you paying attention, Xander? Because I think you’ll really like this part. Sometimes, those drunken nights, he wasn’t the one doing the taking. Sometimes, it was he that was helpless, letting another man push into his body and use him like a woman until his eyes rolled back in his head. He wasn’t supposed to want that, but those nights, he came so hard in his own hand that it felt like dying.” A smile crept into the rumbling voice. “Which is ironic, if you think about it.”

Xander’s heart was pounding. He stared at the wallpaper that was peeling away in the corner. It was all so terribly true, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He felt stripped bare and so desperate for…fuck, he hated that he was angry now at the way Angel’s finger teased, and he had the insane urge to beg for more, but…he wouldn’t. But he could tell by the smile against his ear that his body was betraying itself in the way it rocked back into the large hand. Inviting. He wanted to cry, or…something.

“I knew this boy, when I’d lived another century and nothing seemed like too much of a sin. Well, I knew a lot of boys, back then, but this one in particular. He was just like us, Xander. So in denial, clinging to his weak, human notions of perversion, but Christ, he wanted it. I had to tie him down, too, the first time. Spat and scratched like a wild cat, but it wasn’t all anger. Never seen a man so made to take cock, and he thanked me. Repeatedly. For decades. So, you can be angry, but in the end, I know. All I’m doing is giving you what you’re too ashamed to ask for. Isn’t that right?”

Xander was about to set Angel straight. It couldn’t be true, that wasn’t quite right, even though he worried sickly that maybe it was more accurate than he’d ever want to admit. His mind flickered to all those dreams, so much like this. But he hadn’t wanted what happened in those dreams, they’d just been….

So Xander was about to tell him he was wrong, but suddenly that thick, circling finger pressed into his flesh. It slid through just a little before Xander could clench against the dry friction. Xander’s eyes glazed and the argument fell away because his thoughts were riveted on the…sudden and unexpected discomfort, and the sensitivity. Not pain and not pleasure, precisely, but it was strange and…actually, kind of good and…. “Oh.”

Angel wore a self-satisfied look that Xander wanted to punch off his face but then he applied something from a tube to his still embedded finger, and there was a little less friction and more of a sliding-filling, and Xander’s whole body was held rigid against the feeling.

“Relaaaxx,” Angel drawled, and even in his strange stunned numbness, Xander was annoyed.

“ _You_ relax, I’ve got a finger up my—Oh. God.” Xander gasped and began to pant a little, body suddenly and unexpectedly pulsing with pleasure and his hips convulsed upwards, driven by a sudden compulsion to fuck himself up into something that wasn’t there. Or back onto Angel’s finger, which most definitely was there… _riiiight_ there, at the spot he’d read about but never… _understood_.

And Xander was still pulsing, and thrusting, and sweating, through the slow burn and stretch of another finger, deeper, wider, until Angel was fucking two thick digits into him while he moaned helplessly and tried not to look at Angel’s face…hiding from what was happening.

But that wasn’t allowed. Xander understood that he wasn’t allowed to forget, to simply feel, when Angel was finally hovering over him, slick cock pressing insistently against Xander’s body. Because Angel started talking.

“Wanted to do this for so long,” Angel groaned, and even though the head of his cock was burning its way into Xander’s body, that statement had his attention.

“Whaaa—Ahh!” And there it was, Angel’s cock pushed through some resistance and slid into Xander’s body in a way that simultaneously felt _Oh god, wrongwaywrongwaywrongway_ and _Jeeeeezus Christ yes_ , because unlike Angel’s fingers that only hit his prostate with probing, the thickness of his cock pressed firmly against it consistently as he slid through.

Angel hissed in a sucking breath. “Ah. Yeah. Wanted to climb on top of you every time you taunted me, Xander.”

Xander’s head spun with the slow withdrawal of Angel’s cock and the implication of what Angel was saying. Did Angel—?

“Every time you made some smart-assed crack about my hair or my age or my lack of a pulse, I just wanted to fuck the respect right back into you.” Angel slammed roughly back into Xander, and Xander cried out, because ahh! and because he got it, and he was red-faced that he’d thought for a moment….

Angel had a grip now on his hips, driving his cock into Xander like he meant to compress things inside…and god help him, it was so good, and he actually wanted more, faster harder, hurtier. But that was awful and wrong so he tried his best to block that out, to smudge that wrong desire like graphite under the near-pain of his coming orgasm.

Angel was far more dignified than he should be, collected and breathless despite the growing heaviness of his expression. So collected, he hadn’t lost the thread of conversation.

“Because you don’t think I’m such a pansy now, do you?” When Xander didn’t respond, a hand tightened on his face enough to break through the steady pounding against his prostate, and Xander gasped and shook his head no, because a negative answer of some sort was required.

Angel lunged forward suddenly and struck, fangs imbedding themselves into Xander’s throat and his hips were pistoning harder and the adrenaline that shot through Xander at the bite made his vision blur but Angel wasn’t feeding. He was just hanging on, hooked in, and the wash of relief Xander felt pulled his orgasm with it, and his hips jerked as he came all over himself. A few vicious thrusts later and Angel shuddered too, and Xander felt himself fill with a cool, viscous substance that he’d rather not dwell on.

Because ‘I’ve got Angel’s come up my ass’ was not the type of thought Xander Harris had ever wanted to have.

Angel’s weight was heavy on Xander’s body, but Xander had come back to himself far too quickly, and his legs were folded painfully under the vampire’s cold weight. When it became apparent that Angel had no intention of moving, Xander bucked, wincing at the pull of the fangs still buried in his throat.

Angel’s only immediate movement was to withdraw them, and to begin licking the blood that welled up with broad strokes of his tongue. It gave Xander a welcome shudder of revulsion.

“Stop licking me like a damn ice cream cone and get the fuck off me.” For the first time since he’d arrived at the Hyperion, Xander sounded as pissed off as he felt, and he was glad. Angel heaved himself off of Xander’s body. When he threw himself back onto the bed, he chuckled tiredly before rolling to stand.

“Not perfect happiness, but we can work on it. I’m afraid I’m gonna need a little more emotional investment from you, Xander. I’m disappointed. I expected more loathing.”

Xander could feel the blood sliding thickly from the twin marks on his throat…it grossly echoed the come sliding thickly from his ass. He just wanted Angel to go away and leave him alone.

He had a bitter taste in his mouth, like chalky aspirin. “I always knew you were just like Angelus. You never fooled me, you know.”

Angel laughed, low and mocking, and Xander turned his head away, angry at himself for saying anything. Big fingers were gentle when the turned his face back.

Angel was dressed now. He sighed at him in mock exasperation. “Xander, Xander, Xander. It never would have been like this with Angelus.” Angel paused, stroking one finger softly down Xander’s face. “Well, actually, it would have been a little like this. He would have tied you here like this, but…there would have been a lot more bleeding. And the removal of organs through unusual orifices.” Angel’s eyes skipped down Xander’s naked body, and Xander fought the urge to twist away modestly. Not like it had done him any good the first time. “Woulda been a shame. Your navel wouldn’t look nearly so fuckable with a loop of intestine pulled through.”

Without warning, Angel’s mouth swooped down to hoover the drying semen from Xander’s lower belly, tongue fucking the hollow of his navel, and Xander cried out and arched up into the sensation, body still humming and overly sensitive.

Xander hated himself for the reaction.

Angel stood and straightened himself, smirking down at Xander’s glittering eyes. He took a deep, showy breath and sighed happily. “God, I love the smell of self-loathing in the morning. Keep this up, you might find out all about Angelus after all.”

Angel laughed. Xander turned his head away, tucking it safely into his shoulder so that the sick fuck couldn’t derive whatever pleasure out of his misery. Angel laughed harder and gave a friendly clap-squeeze on Xander’s thigh, startlingly close to his balls. Xander was proud that he jumped only a little.

“Bye for now, lover.”

With that echo of Angelus, the door clicked closed softly, and Xander heard Angel retreat down the hall. Eventually it was so quiet in the hotel, Xander suspected he had left altogether. Xander tugged once more on his restraints for good measure, but it was no use.

He was stuck, and there was nothing he could do until Angel came back, to fuck him again. Xander closed his eyes against the wash of shameguiltpleasurefear the thought carried.

Then he left them closed and tried to get some sleep. He didn’t want to be conscious any more.


	2. Chapter 2

Xander awoke to a muted but insistent buzzing sound. It took him a few groggy moments to become aware of it, and then he strained upward so hard in an effort to locate the source of the noise that he nearly dislocated his shoulder.

His cell phone. It was set to vibrate, no doubt buried in the folded stack of his clothing in the far corner.

Angel was such an anal-retentive headcase.

Xander collapsed against the bed, listening to the futile sound that called to him. He guessed by the light coming in the heavily curtained windows that it was midday. It had been late afternoon when he’d arrived in LA, the shadows drawing long. That meant he had been chained to this bed for almost a day.

They must be wondering what had happened to him, in Sunnydale. He wondered who was calling…Anya, or Willow, or Buffy, or Giles. As time wore on and the buzzing stopped and started in fits, he realized it could be any of them. Likely, all of them.

He hadn’t been meant to stay in LA more than a few hours, and they were in a desperate state of affairs with Glory. Time was drawing short, and the bitch had them always on the run. They couldn’t spare anyone else, no matter how much they needed that device. They’d be forced to make due without it, to change tactics.

Which probably meant no one else was coming for him, even though they’d worry.

~*~*~*~

“Honey, I’m home.”

Xander must have dozed again, after his morose discovery that he was on his own…because the smart slamming of the bedroom door brought him to with a jolt.

Angel was studying him with detachment, in the process of stripping his button-down off of his body.

“Had a hard day at the office, and you know how I get when things aren’t going my way at work. It makes me cranky.” Angel dropped his pants, laying the slacks neatly over one armchair and crawling onto the bed so that he straddled Xander’s chest. His cock waved obscenely in Xander’s face, and damned if his own didn’t get interested.

Traitor. _Kinky_ traitor.

“One sure-fire way to cure me from feeling all grumpy,” Angel sing-songed. He rubbed the head of his cock coyly against Xander’s lips, smearing pre-come there.

Xander hated him.

“You bast—aghn!” Xander’s mouth was stretched around Angel’s dick before he could even complete an insult and his outrage didn’t matter, because Angel just smiled and held his cock at a downward angle, thrusting carefully down into Xander’s mouth.

“Thanks. You’re a real pal.”

~*~*~*~

Angel never touched him when they fucked.

Well, he touched Xander, but not where it counted. Not where it would have given Xander an excuse for the way he came every damn time. The old ‘every man would come eventually with a tight fist wrapped around his cock’ was not a valid excuse he could comfort himself with in the dark, when Angel had gone away and left him alone with his thoughts.

No, Xander came just from being fucked. He understood, abstractly, the wonders of the prostate gland. God knew he understood it by experience, now. The way that Angel would ram his cock up against it with speeding strokes until Xander was shouting and squirming, until he was numb with the pleasure of it, until he was hitting it so fast that it became one long, plateauing sensation that blended so seamlessly with his orgasm that sometimes Xander wasn’t even cognizant of where one ended and the other began, until he came to, sticky with sweat and blood and come.

But it was more than just that—this high that he got from being used by Angel. More than physiology, or his apparent (and very disturbing!) kink for masochism.

It was Russian Roulette. It made everything sharper. The icy, slick fear of never knowing who he was gonna be looking at when he was fully conscious again, even though Xander had sincere doubts that he could give Angel a real happy. Not from the sex, at least. But Xander was afraid that one of these times, he’d do the unthinkable and let the tears slip that sometimes wanted to come, not from pain but from the humiliation of _liking_ it, of liking the way that Angel pressed him down and took him hard and called him names, and Angel would take a little too much sadistic pleasure in that, and pop goes the weasel, Xander gets his throat ripped out.

Because this Angel wasn’t the Angel he’d known and resented (but never really feared) in Sunnydale. And it wasn’t quite Angelus either, although he was trying his damndest to be. This Angel was off his nut, and a little unpredictable, and a lot mean. Xander had no idea how he got this way, but he wouldn’t stick around to find out if given the chance to cut and run.

But somehow none of that stopped Xander from getting pleasure from it. He came harder with Angel than he ever had in his life. And he sincerely wished he could blame that on the treacherous little lump of flesh up his butt.

~*~*~*~

Xander was just starting to feel a little reprieve from his constant soreness when Angel opened the door to the suite. He was pretty sure he’d been left alone all night, and he wasn’t so raw anymore, but he could have done with a few days—hell, millennia—without Angel’s particular brand of fun.

More wary-making was the fact that the guy looked…different. More sober, not chatty and taunting, as he had been. Xander was still trying to gauge what this meant when Angel pulled a key out of his pocket and casually flicked the cuffs off of Xander’s wrists.

Xander drew a complete and total blank for sixty long seconds.

And then he was scrambling up, ignoring the fiery pain of his body in a surge to go-run-live before Angel changed his mind. He hadn’t even made it out of the bed before Angel clamped a big hand down on his shoulder and held him back.

“Not so fast. We’re not done yet. But you’re starting to get a little rank.”

Rage geysered faithfully. “Yeah, well if you didn’t keep me chained to your goddamn bed for—” How long had he been here? Two weeks? Three?

Angel looked strangely tired—defeated and irritable, and wasn’t that supposed to be Xander’s gig right now? “Five days.”

Five days. Five _days_? That was it? It had felt like an eternity. The strong emotion pumping through him crumpled a little in the face of that shock.

“Come on.”

Angel guided him into the bathroom, and Xander didn’t put up a fuss. Scared to, even though Angel seemed almost down-trodden today. The bastard could turn on a dime, as he’d found out the hard way, and he’d learned he had to expect anything.

Xander _was_ surprised, however, when Angel just gave him a little shove into the small bathroom and closed the door between them. He hadn’t expected to be left alone. Uncuffed. Upright.

Xander stood for a moment, dazed and achy, before he got some sense and moved over to the shower, stepping carefully into bathtub because as loathsome as his manly bits were these days, he’d rather not smush them, thanks. Fifty percent of all accidents happened in the home, especially when it was the home of a lunatic vampire that was keeping you prisoner.

He showered hot, massaging some of Angel’s fruity shampoo into his grease-tangled hair, and leaving the conditioner sit like Anya had taught him. Anya…the image of her that popped into his head sliced him open in a way that he couldn’t afford right now, so he shoved it back down. Ruthlessly strangled the thoughts of engagement rings and happily-ever-afters that he’d probably never see. He washed himself clinically with a soapy cloth, not pausing to jack off, like he normally would at home.

Xander thought there was a good chance he’d never be horny again. But then Angel would touch him and….

He shuddered. Shoved that thought aside as well.

Xander turned into the spray to wash away the cream rinse, prolonging the bliss of hot water and solitude, and a moment of dignity where he could almost pretend he was home, and not stuck in this nightmare where the punchline was probably his corpse on Buffy’s doorstep.

When he opened his eyes, he screamed. Because Angel was in the shower with him. And he had a big-ass blade.

Xander didn’t even have time to scramble backwards before Angel was grabbing his face in one large hand and considering it critically. Xander just blinked when he was slathered with something thick and foamy, and Angel brought the blade up to his face.

Angel was _shaving_ him. With a straight razor.

He would have laughed at the insanity, if a blood-hungry demon hadn’t been holding a very sharp implement to his throat.

When he was done, Angel pulled back and set the razor behind him. “Better,” he appraised. Today he seemed a little more…dare Xander say sane? It threw him off balance. He seemed almost normal if a little sad. If you could ever consider it normal for Xander to be naked in the shower with Angel.

But Xander was no longer fully on board the sane train himself, so yeah…it felt kind of normal.

And that’s when Angel kissed him.

Xander froze, brain blinking a big neon ‘what the fuck??’ insistently as Angel explored his mouth. All the shit that Angel had forced him to do over the last five days, and not once had his lips touched Xander’s. But now he was holding Xander’s face like they were lovers, and that gave Xander the wiggins almost as much as the mouth that was moving firmly but gently against his.

Freaked as he was about this turn of events, Xander was scared to startle Angel out of his moment. He flashed back hysterically to a paunchy Cub Scout leader lecturing that it was best to freeze in the face of a large predator. He’d been six, and there had been twinkies and soda and a sugar high that had his mother cussing the Boy Scouts later. Those were the good old days—back when he’d thought the biggest predator he was ever going to come up against was a stray dog. Somehow he didn’t think this was what the guy had been preparing him for. What with the Boy Scouts’ stance on the Big Gay Sex.

So in the interest of appeasing the wolf at his throat, Xander let the guy back him against the shower wall, and then Angel’s body was pressing and sliding against his wetly, and Angel was moaning, and the whole thing was surreal. Surreal, but not a physical deterrent, apparently. Because his dick was getting a little excited by all the rubbing and the happy noises, and the fact that for once, it didn’t seem like he was going to die anytime soon.

And that’s when Angel shocked the shit out of him again, by dropping to his knees in the swirling soapy water and licking Xander’s cock.

Xander flailed, finally finding a grip on the little soap rack. Angel wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing his face against Xander’s crotch like it was so much catnip, and the tiny nip he gave Xander’s lower belly had him jumping nearly out of his skin. That made Angel chuckle, in a not-homicidal way, and Xander had a serious case of the creeps.

Or he would, if Angel’s lips weren’t wrapping around his cock, sucking him off like an expert. And Xander could vouch now that Angel was.

Fuck. Fucking…shit, what the hell was this. Angel still wasn’t looking at him, just concentrating on his cock, and all that focus was paying off, because Xander was really desperately close to blowing his load, and he had no idea what was going to happen when he did.

Maybe he had been a little hasty on the whole ‘not dying anytime soon’ thing.

But before Xander could royally piss Angel off by coming down his throat, or—oh god—all over his face, Angel pulled away and stood smoothly, nudging Xander around to brace himself against the wall without ever looking at his face. And then he was stretching Xander open with care, and sliding inside.

They stood there for a moment, unmoving. Xander was trembling a little, and Angel was leaning into him, hips molded flush to Xander’s ass, groaning and burying his face in Xander’s squeaky clean hair. Xander’s heart was beating hard, and he felt like someone was standing on his chest. Forcing his breath to be painfully shallow.

Angel’s lips began to brush now over his neck and his shoulders, disconcertingly intimate. Xander had no idea what game they were playing, but when Angel pulled back and stroked into him, his movements were made with care. It was unlike anything he’d ever done to Xander. It felt good. His legs were shaking.

And his throat was a little tight. He would _not_ go all Stockholm over a little softness. Fucking bastard. Undead asshole.

When a shower-warmed hand closed over Xander’s cock, he cried out in surprise. It felt like he hadn’t been touched in so long. So much neglect of that part of him, these last few days.

Xander’s forehead dropped down against his arm, and he couldn’t prevent the pathetic little noises that were escaping him as Angel continued to fuck him and touch him and kiss his skin as if he _cared_. Xander’s body pushed itself back into the attention, and he didn’t _understand_ —

“Oh god, that’s right, boy,” a deep voice moaned in his ear. And before Xander could even think to object to that, Angel was fucking him harder, teeth scraping over his earlobe—“Fuck. William.”

Xander froze, and he swore that his heart stopped beating. William. As in—?

Angel was impatient with Xander’s hesitation, and took control of his hips, moving them back to crash into Angel’s as things became more intense. Ok, so this must be some kind of weird flashback thingie…somehow that was more bearable to Xander than the thought that Angel was fucking _him_ this way, after everything.

Angel was moving frantically like he was getting close, and he clutched Xander closer, really throwing himself into the world’s best handjob, and when Angel gave a particularly rough twist, Xander let himself tip over the edge he’d been trembling on, convulsing and coming as silently as he could. Unobtrusive. Ashamed.

Angel was still going, faster and harder, squeezing Xander’s ribs so tight he could hardly breath. He buried his face in the crook of Xander’s throat. “Fuck, Wil—” the name was choked off. The body behind him shuddered and sniffed and corrected, “Xander. _Xander_ ,” and so Xander was feeling a little ill when Angel finally ground into him and he experienced that squishy feeling that he wished to god wasn’t familiar by now.

Xander collapsed forward against the shower wall, breathing hard. Didn’t have much choice about either of those things, now that Angel had slumped into him like a big dead weight, and released his body so that his lungs could pull in air greedily.

Xander had a strange feeling that Angel was looking at him, but it was _his_ turn not to open his eyes, to be somewhere else in his head, and Angel could fuck off. He just left his cheek pressed into the tile and breathed for a minute. Or two.

“Why the hell are you doing this to me.”

Ok, so he hadn’t really meant to say that out loud. And no, those weren’t tears in his voice, because he was not a woman. Yet.

Angel pulled away, pulled out, and Xander heard the water hitting his body for a moment of sluicing before it was suddenly shut off. He finally opened his eyes and turned around.

Angel was pulling back the shower curtain with a metallic zing, and drying himself off, back to Xander. Xander stared blankly at that stupid tattoo the girls used to giggle over. When Angel finally turned back, his face was as cold and closed off as it had been before. Before he’d made love to Xander while moaning someone else’s name.

Angel tossed a towel at Xander, who felt naked, for more than the obvious reason.

“Dry off. Playtime’s over.”

Xander clutched the towel to him, feeling just a little batshit. He laughed. “Oh, so it’s back to the coal mines now.”

Angel shot him a reproachful little ha-ha look over his shoulder as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Here’s to hoping the asshole had at least changed the sheets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads-up, the last chapter is especially rough. brace yourselves. lol.

They had turned some kind of weird corner that day in the shower.

Well, Angel had turned some weird corner. Xander was just kind of along for the very scary ride.

But anyway, yes, there was a corner. And they’d taken it on two wheels at ninety miles an hour, and when the car righted itself with no apparent casualties, things were different. Not _too_ different—Xander was still getting it up the ass a square three times a day, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey but without all the gratitude—but he got the feeling he wasn’t in any real danger of dying now. It was no longer Angel-teetering-on-Angelus that he was dealing with—no chance of happiness in this new place, that was for sure, and the evil-chic mannerisms had been dropped. It was just Angel, even if it wasn’t the one that he’d known. He was still mean as all hell, but the edge had come off the sadism. Lucky him.

Xander kept waiting to be let go. Sometimes it seemed like Angel was hovering on the verge of that, full of guilt and regret and horror at what he’d done. At what he was _still_ doing. But then he’d swing right back the other way, clinging to Xander like a lifeline as he invaded his body, again. Gently. Or other times, not so gently.

Sometimes he talked to Xander now—not dirty-sex-talk, but real conversation. Or it would have been, if Xander had any fricking clue what the nutcase was saying. Once Angel had come in, filthy and sweaty from whatever he did when he left Xander’s presence, and told Xander that Darla was dust. Looked like he wanted to cry but he wouldn’t. The weird thing was, he said it as if his mourning was fresh…Jesus, how long ago had that been…six years? Seven? And when Xander said something along the lines of ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Angel started to laugh in the not-had-my-lithium way. Said he was his own grandpa. Whatever the fuck _that_ meant. Psycho.

So it appeared that they’d sort of turned a corner right into a different _kind_ of craziness. After all, corners generally didn’t lead to overall improvement, in Xander’s world.

A different kind of craziness where Angel would fuck him hard and call him dirty, degrading names right up until the moment when he clutched Xander close and kissed him like he was desperate, shuddered and went still. The kind of crazy where Angel didn’t rush out of the room as soon as he’d come now, but instead wrapped himself around Xander needily and fell asleep with his nose against a racing jugular. The kind of crazy where he said nice things to Xander in a quiet voice, before and after, and brushed the hair out of Xander’s face, which Xander couldn’t do for himself because _he was fucking chained to the bed_.

 _That_ kind of crazy.

And maybe Angel wasn’t the only one that was losing his mind. It seemed Xander was getting sucked right down the drain with him.

Because these days, when Angel was being a dick—when he was rough and hurtful and picked at Xander’s weak spots in a way that was frighteningly psychotic (and accurate)—Xander could only escape blankly to one of Angel’s good days. How fucked was that, that his happy place was now Angel. Like his whole world had shrunk down to this one room, and after all, hadn’t it? These days, when Angel was nice to him—spoke to him softly, touched him with gentle hands, pulled him off with care—Xander took aching comfort in it.

Yeah, he might have been crazier than Deadboy. Because it didn’t get any worse than that.

~*~*~*~

Seventeen days after Xander arrived at the Hyperion, things got worse.

Angel was gearing up for another game of hide-the-sausage. Xander would have thought he’d be numb to it by now, but Angel was making his body sing, even if it was, in his exhaustion, off-key and hoarse.

Then, his own personal hell was interrupted by a feminine voice floating up from the lobby.

“Xander? Angel? Anybody here?”

It should have been welcome, to hear a friend after weeks of this. Of he and Angel, and so very little hope. But it was the very last female voice Xander wanted to hear. Not Anya. Not Cordelia. They would have mortified him with their frank and blunt appraisals of the situation, but it would have been ok. They would have gotten him out of here and been able to look him in the eye afterwards.

Willow wouldn’t. Wills wouldn’t be able to do either of those things.

Angel’s head snapped towards the suite door at the first timid strains of her voice, like a wolf scenting prey. He stared for a moment, and Xander could smell the wood burning. Angel was thinking, and he wasn’t sure which Angel was behind the wheel today—the broken one or the one who wanted to break others. Some days, it was a close call. By the time her voice grew bolder, Angel was climbing off of Xander and picking clothing up off the floor to slip into.

Xander’s gut clenched. He had a sinking feeling this was the wrong guy.

Luckily, Xander’s recent lifestyle had taught him a lot about begging. “Angel. Angel, please, stay here. She’ll go away. Please don’t—”

“She’s worried about you, Xander. Come all the way from Sunnydale during an apocalypse, looking. It wouldn’t be very nice of us to let her worry.”

Beyond the hint of grim irony, he sounded just like Angel should—considerate and thoughtful and in remorse at the very idea of Willow’s prolonged suffering.

Fucking lying asshole.

Angel was dressed now, and was smoothing over his hair, and he looked just like the champion they all knew. Willow would have no clue until—

“Don’t you touch her, you dickhead. Don’t you dare—” He struggled violently against his bonds for the first time in…how long had it been since he struggled? How long had he been here? He yanked at the cuffs like a wild animal in a trap, until he sliced his raw skin on the edge of the metal. The pain was white-hot.

Angel just smiled at him in that distant, mirthless way he’d always had, and Xander hated him. “Don’t worry so much, Xander. I won’t.”

Something about the way he emphasized the ‘I,’ something about that smirk…Xander felt a cold lump of dread in the pit of his stomach. Because he had a really bad feeling about this.

~*~*~*~

“—but he’s not hurt?”

Xander’s eyes clenched shut at the sound of Willow’s voice in the hall. The concerned bleat of a lamb to slaughter.

“No, he’s not hurt. He just hasn’t been himself since he turned up here….” Understatement of the century. Why don’t you tell her the reason for that, dickhead? Broody fucking snake-in-the-grass asshole.

The door was pushed open by Angel’s hand but he stepped aside, like a gentleman, for Willow to enter first. When she registered Xander’s nakedness, she immediately stuttered and tried to back out of the room politely, running into Angel’s unmoveable chest.

“Oh god, Xander, sorry I didn’t realize….”

Angel nudged her into the room with an almost polite hand on her back, and Willow turned red and looked confused.

“Um, I should….”

“No.” The word was light, agreeable, but final. The furrows in Willow’s brow deepened. She turned to go, but Angel’s large hand came to rest on the nape of her neck in a light, friendly grip. “Stay.”

Very little alarm was registering on her face yet, but Willow’s eyes flickered shyly to Xander, like she was seeking an explanation. Looking to her oldest, closest friend to explain what this was all about.

He saw the exact moment she realized he was tied to the bed. She paled and tried to shrink back, but Angel’s hand was firm.

“What—” Her voice shook. Her eyes darted towards Angel and back.

“Will, I’m so sorry….” It was laughable. Xander had no apology big enough for this mess he’d gotten them both into.

“Angel?” Willow was starting to wise up to the badness. “Angel, what’s going on.”

“You’re a smart girl, Willow. Went and got all worldly, too, so I don’t think I really need to explain.”

They stared at one another, standoff only broken by the flit of green eyes in Xander’s direction. Her anxiety was clearly written in the tension of her body. She didn’t want to believe the obvious implication, because they all knew his mind games. _Angelus’_ mind games. Willow would jump to the soulless conclusion, of course. It was the logical one.

But Angel’s demeanor was probably making the justification harder for her to sell to herself. There was no smug smile. No Angelus-y glee. Just…an empty shell where Angel’s empathy should be.

Finding Angel unreadable, Willow’s eyes swung to him. Xander, on the other hand, felt sure he was too readable, with everything that had happened these last three weeks written on his face, and he knew he was right when her eyes went glossy with tears. Her face wavered into something vulnerable just before she toughened up and turned away.

Xander closed his own eyes, which had moistened in sympathy with Will’s.

Willow’s voice was resolvey. “Untie him, Angel. I’m taking him home with me.”

“Nah. I’d rather not.” There was a touch of anger to the quiet, casual words, and Xander cringed a little inside.

“Angel, the joke or—or whatever this is—is over. Unchain him, and we’re leaving.”

“Ha. Pretty sure Xander will tell you it was no joke when I fucked him, but he _is_ getting a little…worn. So you can have him.”

“Oh. Well.” Willow hesitated, on the verge of defending Xander’s honor, but made the smart decision and let it lie. “…Good.”

Xander’s stomach clenched. Too easy. Will felt it, and Xander’s heart was pounding.

“But first, I wanna see you two fuck.”

Son of a bitch. There was nothing but stunned silence from Willow. Xander wasn’t stunned. He was just pissed. “You’re a real fucking piece of work, Angel.”

Dark eyes ticked to Xander. “What? Aren’t you two supposed to be…soulmates or something? Unconditional love and kumbaya and nothing you can’t face if you’re together? I’ve lost my way here, Xander. Aren’t you gonna rehabilitate me? Teach by example? Never had that, myself. I wanna see how it works.”

Willow tried logic, because she hadn’t been on the one-way bus to CrazyTown. “Angel, you don’t want to do this. You know that Xander and I aren’t like that. I….” Her eyes strayed towards Xander before darting away. “I don’t know exactly what has gone on between the two of you, but…don’t make it worse. We don’t want this.”

Angel's face twisted up bitterly. “ _Please_. Tell that to someone who doesn’t remember when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. That doesn’t change. There will always be lust in your hearts for each other. There are just some people…you can’t change what you are to one another. Ever. Not until you kill each other trying.”

Well that was…strangely philosophical. Willow met Xander’s eyes and they shared a look over the cryptic little speech…she clearly knew something he didn’t.

“Anyway, I figure I’m doing you both a favor, giving up my fucktoy, so you owe me one for the road. Take off your clothes.”

There was a pregnant pause in which it became clear from the set of Angel’s jaw that there was no way she was getting back out through that door. Xander personally thought she could have made a break for it, if she went alone. Pulled out some spur-of-the-moment magicks and ran like hell. She should. She should be safe and happy.

But Xander knew there was no way she was going to leave him behind. The guilt at being _happy_ about that was enough to crush him.

When Willow gripped the hem of her shirt to sweep it over her head, Xander turned away, unwilling to watch his best friend strip naked. For _this_. He didn’t look when a slight weight depressed the mattress, but he had no choice when Willow’s hand cupped his cheek and guided his face back towards her.

She smiled. Willow could be so goddamn brave sometimes. “Hi.”

“Willow, I’m sorr—”

Her finger came up to stop his words. She shook her head.

So he tried a smile. “Well at least gimme a kiss if you’re gonna get fresh.” He turned up a cheek, and she gave him a peck. Her hands were warm where they cupped his face, which shouldn’t have felt so strange.

But it was comforting.

Willow stole a glance over her shoulder at Angel, who had settled himself into a chair by the door. He didn’t look particularly happy about getting his way. His eyes were slightly unfocused, and his mouth was a grim line.

“I have all the time in the world, but I imagine you two want to get home sooner than later.”

Xander opened his mouth to say something, but Willow turned his face up to her and shook her head slightly…a familiar gesture from distasteful tasks past. The one that said _don’t talk back, Xander…just hang on a little longer, play by the rules, and then we’re out of here_. He didn’t have time to tell her this wasn’t Algebra II, because then she was kissing him. And it wasn’t…passion. It wasn’t all hot and sweaty like their grope sessions in the past where Xander wasn’t Oz, and Willow wasn’t Cordy. This time there was no thrill to their infidelity. Just comfort. Very sweet, totally non-sexy comfort-kisses.

At this rate, Xander was never gonna get it up, and his hands were kinda…tied. Literally.

“Will. I, um.” Fuck. How was he supposed to…. “I think you’re gonna have to. Help me.”

Willow nodded. She looked as though they were talking about tutoring, or a ride to school, or the copying of homework. Something that did not at all resemble her hand wrapping around his soft dick and stroking him until he was hard, which is exactly what she was doing. And it was taking longer than he’d prefer because Xander had the utterly horrifying thought that he was only the second man she had ever touched this way, and that wasn’t right. That put him on the verge of crying, and nowhere near on the verge of an erection, and he hated that Willow looked concerned for _him_ , when all he had to do was lie here, while she had to….

“Hey,” Willow murmured, and her free hand was brushing his dirty hair back from his face tenderly. She leaned in and kissed him on a cheek that was wet now and spoke into his ear, though they both knew Angel could hear. “This isn’t so bad. I love you. Better you than him, right?”

Xander ignored the strange, pained look that passed over Angel’s face and turned his own up to catch Willow’s lips, because he was grateful she was here, even if that was selfish of him. And the least selfish thing he could do at the moment was hurry this along as much as possible, so Xander decided to lay back and think of…well, not England, because his impression from Giles wasn’t very sexy. Though Spike…Xander suppressed that thought and concentrated mainly on waiting blankly while the friction did its thing.

Willow gave a surprisingly good handjob. And that was a fact he could have gone his whole life without knowing.

He couldn’t think about it too hard when she straddled his hips and sank down around him, because he was afraid of going soft and having to start all over again. But she felt good. Warm and wet and so tight and all the things he thought he would never get to feel again. And his throat was burning again…was there a restriction on the number of times you could cry during sex before they revoked your man card? Because he was afraid he was pushing the limit.

One thing was sure—“Lucky for you, I don’t think this is going to take very long.” He tried to pass it off as a joke but he felt sick on so many levels.

But he could always count on Willow to take the baton seamlessly. “Oh, well that’s good, because I actually have a hair appointment at 4.”

If he laughed a little too hard at that, in a way that was suspiciously like crying towards the end, she just laughed right along with him. She hugged him close and rocked them together, and just as he’d suspected, having sex with your gay best friend when your dick hadn’t really been touched in weeks while the demon that had been psychologically torturing you for the last month watched...did not a recipe for stamina make.

When they eased to a halt and Willow pulled back, shifting in his lap, Xander saw the…disgust or sorrow or some kind of badness flicker across her face for the first time since her clothes had come off. And then she moved and things were sticky, and it occurred to him that vampires didn’t provide condoms for their captives, and there wasn’t any particular reason for a lesbian to be on the pill.

Xander took a breath and shared a long look with her. “We’ll take care of it. Today.”

“Yeah,” she murmured back. She looked tired.

“C’mere.”

She leaned back down and wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her the only way he could—with his chin hooked on her shoulder. Despite everything, it was solid gold. Warm and welcoming and familiar. It was a Willow-hug, naked or no. The first bit of real comfort he'd had in weeks.

The room was quiet for a long time as they reassured each other. Then Angel broke the silence.

“You can go.”

Xander’s gaze snapped up, sure he’d heard wrong, but Angel was looking at him flatly, and his voice was quiet, devoid of gloat. Weary. He tossed Willow a set of keys and gestured towards the door. “Get out of here.”

No one moved for a long moment. Then he and Willow eased themselves up as Wills went about unlocking his cuffs. When Willow began to self-consciously dress, Xander wanted to yell at her, to hurry, to run out of here naked before Angel changed his mind, but now that it was done she was shaking, and Angel was staring vacantly out the window over the bed. Looking through them, as if he weren’t really there. Or as if they were already gone.

“Will,” Xander murmured when they were both dressed. “Wait for me in the hall.”

“Xander—” she threw a wary look in Angel’s direction, clearly not wanting to leave them alone.

“Just do it, please? We’re fine.”

Reluctantly she slipped out. Xander stood in front of the man who’d been tormenting him for weeks…the man who now just looked like an empty puppet. A pathetic shell. It was chilling and weird, and Xander found himself in the ridiculous position of trying not feel sorry for this monster who’d just forced him to fuck his best friend. For entertainment. Or…god, Xander didn’t even know why.

“I just have one question.” Flat eyes flicked up to focus on his face. Xander shoved down the desperate ‘Why me?’ because didn’t he already know? It was the same reason anything ever happened to him: he was there, and it was easy.

“Where are the bodies?”

Confusion stole in across Angel’s blank features. “What?”

“The _bodies_. Of the people who called you a friend. Are they still here? I’m taking them with me.”

Comprehension dawned, and Angel looked away guiltily. “I didn’t…. I let you think what you wanted. They’re not dead.”

Xander’s legs almost gave out from under him. He didn’t know how he was standing in the first place, honestly. Cordy. She was alive.

“What happened to you, man? What the hell could make you….” Not that he’d ever trusted the guy, but the general consensus had been that he was decent. Good. Fought on the right side. Not the kind of person to do…what he’d done. Xander couldn’t connect it. He couldn’t connect the big stupid hero with this pitiful creature who looked broken and ashamed and clueless.

Especially when Angel looked up and there was a sheen of tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. He looked down. “It just all went so…. I never meant to actually keep you…. God Xander I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry, you’re going to get a real pointy piece of wood rammed up your ass.”

Ashamed eyes flickered up and away, and then Angel nodded. No fight in him at the prospect. He hated his own pity for the man.

Right now, Xander couldn’t even work up the anger to hate Angel properly.

He turned and walked out. He closed that door behind him.

~*~*~*~

They stumbled out to the car, Willow supporting as much of his weight as she could manage. Xander winced when he slid into the seat of the car. Willow looked like she wanted to cry. Xander felt the awkwardness drawing out between them.

“Xander, we wanted to come for you—”

“Willow, get in the car. Let’s get out of here while we can.” He didn’t really think for a second that Angel was coming after them, but she didn’t know that. Xander didn’t want to talk about how long he’d been left. They meant well. They always did. Didn’t make it any easier knowing they’d probably been fighting for their lives.

While his was being torn to shreds.

There was nervous Willow-babble as she got the car in gear and pointed them towards the highway. Xander couldn’t focus as she talked about Ben, and medieval weaponry, and for some reason, a Winnebago. He was so fucking exhausted. He just wanted to sleep for a year, closed away somewhere where no one could look at him. Could touch him. Could ask him what happened. Considering his foreman had probably taken him for dead by now, he might just get his wish.

It was the mention of Cordy that caught his attention, given that he’d buried her and resurrected her in his mind. “Wait, what?”

“Well, like I said, we’d been trying to get in touch with _someone_ in LA, between all the…trying not to die. And then finally I got ahold of Cordy. And she told us about Angel. And Darla.”

“…About Darla.” He thought about Angel. Ranting.

“Yeah.” Willow threw a little look over at the passenger’s seat when his silence indicated a lack of mind-meld. “Darla? Getting sired by Dru?”

Xander stared at her blankly. Maybe madness was catching. “Will. What in holy Hades are you talking about?”

“Xander. You didn’t….” His blank look persisted. “He didn’t tell you? Somebody brought Darla back, all…human. Until she was all vampy again, because Dru went and turned her. It was this whole thing with a law firm, and...apparently they ate this cop that Angel knew. Angel hunted them down and dusted them both. Cordy said he pretty much came unglued a couple months ago which…ok, I guess you probably knew that part. But…you didn’t know?” She looked honestly confused.

Huh. That explained…stuff. “Nope. I didn’t exactly get the flashback sequence. Or entire parts of the plot. Mostly I just got the sex scenes.”

Heavy discomfort made the air stifling. Xander didn’t have it in him to backpeddle or joke it away, so he changed the subject.

“So, did everyone miss me? Bet the Buffster’s ready for a vacation now, huh? We can take a little roadtrip. I _am_ intimately acquainted with every bar and skeezy hotel in Oxnard. We could…. Will?”

The joke, if you could call it that, fell totally flat. Really. Silence so thick, you could hear his words go splat on the pavement. Willow’s lips pressed together. She didn’t take her eyes off the road.

The car suddenly slowed as Willow took her foot off the gas peddle, wheel drifting towards the shoulder until they coasted to a stop. Willow’s eyes stayed fixed on the road like they were still hurtling towards Sunnydale, but her face was crumpling in stages. She sat there fighting tears, hands squeezed the wheel. Her breath came in ragged sobs, even though there were no tears yet.

“Will? What’s….” Everything must be catching up with her. “Willow, please don’t. We’ll get one of those…morning-after things and try to forget it ever happened. And he didn’t really even hurt me, I swear. I’ll be good as new—”

“Buffy’s dead,” she whispered.

It was so not what he was expecting to hear that the words made no sense to him. Not when placed in that order, in conjunction. “…What?”

“Buffy. She wanted to save Dawnie, she…. She’s dead, Xander.”

Xander’s world fell out from under him as everything took on a crazier, tiltier slant than it had a moment ago. Like his vision went black and white. Telescoped so that everything was far, far away, including the sound of his own incredulous, disoriented voice.

“What… _how_?”

Willow cried in big ragged sobs, sucking in the stale air of the car, and Xander found himself unable to connect with her grief. It wasn’t real. Except it obviously was, to her. The words barely made it out of her mouth, nothing coherent. Only years of practice with Willow interpretation allowed him to pick apart what she was saying. “Glory opened it. She had to…save Dawn. She fell, Xander. She fell all the way through and she was just so broken.”

Xander stared intently at the A/C lever on the dash of the car. He didn’t comprehend it. The story, the lever…everything. Buffy had fallen…from what? To save Dawn? Had Dawn fallen? He got stuck on the details, but his mind circled again and again to an image of Buffy’s mangled body. Trying to make the fact fit. It didn’t. She was dead. He hadn’t been there to save her, this time.

Xander’s vision blurred and for a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. He threw the car door open and hung his head out, breathing towards the gritty pavement until the feeling passed.

So broken.

Willow was keening now, clinging to the steering wheel. He pulled her over the gearshift into his lap, feeling disconnected from his body, from the actions of his hands, and it wasn’t until she curled her fists into his shirt and started sobbing even harder that Xander started to cry. Cried until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen and his head ached and it was hard to breathe. He didn’t even know if he was crying for Buffy or himself. Or if it even mattered.

They sat there forever, rocking against each other. They were both exhausted when the tears finally dried up. Xander hurt all over…his head, his heart, his body. He felt a little empty, but they sat there breathing together, and Xander was still holding her like a lifeline.

There was a little comfort in that.

Xander thought distantly about the ring in his sock drawer. The one he’d bought to give Anya, before all this had gone so wrong. The one that represented hope, and a future, and other things that didn’t mean anything just now.

He took a deep breath, pulling together his scattered thoughts. He felt like a drunk, trying to force himself into sobering up by willpower alone.

“Willow.” She looked up at him. “Willow, we can’t tell anyone what happened today.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he laid a finger over her lips.

“We tell them Angel went wrong and he held me hostage. And now everything’s fixed. That’s it. They can’t know, Will. Not right now. I can’t hurt Anya like that. Not like Cordy.”

Cordy. He’d call her. Angel needed to be…dealt with. Put down like a rabid dog or…as Angel had snidely offered, rehabilitated. Probably the latter, if he knew Cordy…she always was more soft-hearted than she appeared. Xander thought about the battered shell of a man he’d left at the Hyperion. That was what rock bottom looked like, right? Harmless, because Xander had taken the brunt of the harm. Maybe it was better…. _No, Cordy, he didn’t hurt me. Yeah, you know he doesn’t have that in him. But he needs you…._

Could he do that? Could he?

Willow looked away, and he knew she was thinking of Oz. Of Tara. Finally, she nodded.

“Good.” He petted a hand through her hair, comforting himself as he came to another decision. “I hope you’re getting as good at this whole magic thing as you think you are.”

Willow looked back up at him strangely. When he just gazed back with a sober expression, she grew confused.

“We’re bringing Buffy back.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a fact. A _necessity_.

They just looked at each other, and Xander didn’t blink. Something had to make sense. Something had to make sense, and he didn’t understand a world without Buffy in it. Couldn't bear that particular void. Not now. Slowly, Willow began to nod. And then she gave him this tremulous little smile.

“Good.” He leaned in and they shared a brief, chaste kiss. “Now drive me home, woman.” He helped shift her back into the driver’s seat. He felt lighter now, even though he still felt…wrong. False giddiness following swiftly on the heels of the grief. There were still a few things worth living for, and he wasn’t willing to let go of them. Felt greedy for them, suddenly, in a manicly false way.

“While we’re at it, swing by a supermarket. I need to stock up on twinkies and ding-dongs and some of those Little Debbie things. Oh! And Mountain Dew. Deadboy stuffed me full of broccoli and grapefruit juice. It was a nightmarish parade of health food. On second thought, maybe he did torture me….”

They were all going to be alright, even if he had to hold it all together with dental floss himself. He was good at pretending. He’d pretend them right back into a world that made sense.

Somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bites nails*
> 
> dude, writing this fic has been like birthing a spikey, barbed, fanged, ravenous but mulishly stubborn little demon of a thing that wanted to be born one inch at a time, one limb at a time and not necessarily in an order that was comfortable for mama. I’m pretty sure at some point it tried to tunnel out of some orifice that didn’t exist. I tried to abort the thing at least a dozen times, but it’s been a mystical pregnancy a la Darla. It wouldn’t be denied its shot at life on the outside. 


End file.
